


Old Fashioned

by asleeb



Series: Use Your Words [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Canon Asexual Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Consent, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Set in Episodes 180-181 | Upton Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), ace flavor: sex favorable, as always everything is tragic and soft, be aware: the first three chapters do not have smut. i know. the outrage, idk what to tell you in this house we have our fluff and angst in equal doses, jon is; as he is in all things: inquisitive and complicated, the prologue is set between 160 and 162
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28880043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asleeb/pseuds/asleeb
Summary: "I was head Archivist not head hairdresser...", Jon muttered darkly.Snip."That would have made this Apocalypse much more interesting, wouldn't it? Everything all ...hair. Instead of eyes."Jon paused. "Are you sure about that?"Images of dirty drain hair and matted fur lined Martin's thoughts."Do you think the sky would just be a wig? Instead of...", Martin mused.Jon's shoulders sagged. "If you want me to do this you can't make me laugh.""Maybe the Panopticon wouldn't be a tower, just a big old beehive updo.""Martin.""And you wouldn't stare Avatars to death you'dhair-"_____In which Martin and Jon have a break from the scary honeymoon to have an awkwardly posh honeymoon.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Use Your Words [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1964896
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> how about that end of the season hiatus, huh?
> 
> anyway, this is part three of a continuous series so if you like context and stuff i recommend you start at part one, but if not you're valid but there ARE inside jokes you will miss out on and thats the price you must pay me, personally

His old wounds ached, all of them - never just one - in tandem with the changes to the new world, with the shifting powers and numbers, the people's preexisting fears shuffled up with the current terror, sorting themselves, fighting over one another, staking out territories.   
And he felt it. Sometimes his inner ear brought him to the floor, clutching for anything within reach to stop him falling into the sky. Sometimes his scars hurt, the worm ones, the knife, the scalpel... He didn't always check which. Sometimes his heart stuttered, despite having ceased to beat once again. Sometimes he coughed up dry earth, out of the blue.  
Jon did his best to resent the pain. To hurt from it. Hoped Martin could safely watch him grimace and assume Jon wasn't stifling a grin. Wasn't about to churn out a hearty chuckle at the edge of sanity.

Jon locked the front door.  
Jon locked the front door many times a day. He never checked if it did anything, if it would open. He didn't dare. But the key always turned. The lock always made a satisfying noise. The deadbolt would echo in his ears and the room would feel calmer. Smaller.

Sometimes he wanted to take every cupboard they had and push it up against the door. Didn't they once try that? Had it worked? Jon remembered the image of him and Martin doing it. But everything was where it always was, the cabinets, the table, the sofa. He remembered stacking wood logs in the frame, door-high, filling it entirely. He remembered hammering nails into the wooden frame to block the door, the longest and thickest he could find. He remembered taping the crack on the bottom shut with thick tape. He remembered himself kneeling here, on the mat, smearing mortar until the door was nothing but a fresh wall, two bricks deep.   
He turned the key counter-clockwise.

He never tried to sleep. He didn't trust himself with it. He could see himself rise without waking. Eyes closed, still seeing. Saw himself open the door which never locked, just pretended, wide, _wide_ until it fell out of its hinges and crumbled into sawdust. He could see Martin follow him outside, to shake him awake like he used to. But he didn't make it one step past the threshold unharmed.

Jon put a hand against the splintering brown lacquer of the door. It wasn't cold. It wasn't warm. It was the temperature of freshly mowed grass, of a winter coat taken off several minutes ago. Of too sour wine left out too long in a cheap glass.

"Jon?"  
Jon snapped his hand away and took a step back. He'd been seconds away from leaning his cheek against the door. He locked it.

"Yes?"  
"Didn't you hear me call?"  
Jon put on a guilty face. Martin had a wary eye on Jon, Jon's hands, and he had very messy hair.  
"What's wrong?"  
Martin pulled a face. "The mirror is doing that thing again."  
"Oh. We should take it down."  
"We already tried that."  
Jon remembered that. He remembered shattering it with the back of a screwdriver. He remembered painting over it with thick wood-green varnish. He remembered throwing it down a well and burying it with sand in the desert.  
He rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Right..."

Martin came close and collected a hug. Jon switched to rubbing a hand on Martin's shoulder.  
"Would you fix my hair?", asked Martin, resigned. Jon ran his hand over it, combing the curls that were too long now in the back, following the whorl that naturally wanted to form at the top.  
The ceiling light was too orange and falsified the color of Martin's ginger hair. Jon tried to recall what it normally would look like, in daylight without the curtains drawn tight. Tried being the operative word. Jon closed his eyes. He shut his eyes. He put his hand over them.

Martin steered him away from the entrance and back to the sofa. Jon felt his knees creak. He could use a walk.  
The box of tapes and statements sat gaping wide on the coffee table. The lid was wavy and gnawed from idle, terse hands. The tape recorder's plastic edges had started to dull. The tag on Martin's jumper collar was out. Jon hadn't taken his hand away from his eyes.

Martin touched the side of his neck, currently itchy and raw.  
"How is it today?", he asked.  
"Alright", Jon said. Words didn't have much meaning any more unless they came out of the tape recorder. The past didn't change all the time. _They_ couldn't change the tapes.

Jon remembered the sofa to be smaller. He remembered two large windows there on the wall. And an old storied TV for the nights. He remembered Martin giggling into his ear because of nothing in particular. He remembered but he couldn't picture it.  
The slope of the couch cushions was all different. Every time they sat down they ended up not touching, unless they made an effort. Jon made an effort. Martin sighed and put an arm around him.

He could tell Martin was relieved he talked again. That he wasn't only staring, or only muttering, then ranting, then screaming. One time he'd been laughing. He hadn't stopped until Martin slapped him, hard, across the face. Had _that_ really happened? Seemed a bit out of character.

"Martin", Jon said, just to say a thing. _Could you hate me a moment. Just for a little._  
"Jon?"  
"Did it really happen? Scotland?"  
Martin paused his stroking of Jon's hair. "We're still in Scotland", he said.  
Jon laughed at his conviction.  
"We're in Scotland inasmuch as what you made this morning was 'breakfast'", he told him. Martin made an unhappy sound at the reminder.

Martin quieted. Then, very softly - heartbreakingly softly - he asked, "Do you not remember?"  
Jon closed his eyes, heavy-lidded. Martin's lower lip wobbled. An odd breeze stirred the curtain drawn over the drafty window.

"I remember cows. And you asked how I feel about kissing."  
Martin breathed again.   
"That happened, yes."

"And I remember drinking whisky on the porch."  
Martin shifted where he sat and settled Jon's head on his shoulder. "That too."  
Jon sighed, relieved. "Good."  
"What else do you remember?"  
Jon felt very tired, but he was used to it. "Shower", he mumbled. "We had one."  
"Yeah...", Martin said, pained. "I miss the warm water."

The bathroom now was just a tiled empty room with no function aside from that blasted mirror. It made Jon feel like standing in a padded cell, his ears stuffed with cotton. The glint of the white tiles was somehow brighter than the sun.  
But it didn't seem like they needed it any more. Aside from Martin tangling his hair in the unrestful bed there was no indication of days passing or night falling. Their bodies didn't accrue dirt. Their food didn't turn or run out, although it was a fickle business putting it on a plate. No dust gathered on the counters.

"Do you remember", Martin said, putting Jon back in the present. "When you burned the beans on purpose just to get me to curse you out."  
Jon smiled. Getting Martin's hackles up had been fun always, and sometimes necessary to break him out of his withdrawn, hollow moods.

He remembered another thing.  
"I love you."  
Martin squeezed him tighter.

Then Jon realised what he'd said and screwed his eyes shut. Would have done the same with his ears but either was impossible, and useless. 

When Martin took a breath to answer Jon cut him off.   
"Please don't."  
"Jon-"  
"Don't. Please don't say anything I beg you."  
  


_____________________

  
  


Jon didn't talk to him. He was talking again, sure. Saying words, sure. But he didn't _talk_.   
_They_ didn't talk. Martin would ask questions, maybe, carefully like on tip-toes, fearing he'd set off again, fall deep into whatever stage of despair he might be at, grip his fists so tight Martin thought he might break the bones inside.   
Sometimes Jon would give an answer. Long, winding, low-on-logic answers, rambling and bitter and guilty. Talking at Martin. And then, when he was about to say something true, something final and honest and devoid of hope he'd look at Martin stop. And he'd be silent.

Jon had learned to be quiet - _good_ quiet - just this week. Comfortably shut up, together. He really had. And it had been nice. Martin couldn't stand to think of it. He still did, a lot.

Now he was back to deafening, laden stretches of time spent _not saying anything to each other_. Thinking loudly into space. The only reason he wasn't muttering all of it aloud, driven, piercing, pacing -- was Martin. That he was there, and he might hear. So Martin would leave him, and keep the door cracked. He'd walk away loudly and come back quietly. Just to hear his voice. Just to hear his silence, un-coerced.

Sometimes Martin would cry. Let himself cry on Jon's shoulder. Jon would say things then, too. False, ordinary, mundane things. To make him feel better. The strain in his voice held low and secret. Martin could taste the effort. It was better than nothing. 

Martin packed. He packed one thing a day. Well. Not a _day_. They didn't have days. ...A sleep. At a time.

He couldn't bring himself to do it proper, lay everything out on the bed, count the changes of underwear, number of snack breaks, check a hand-written list. He couldn't do it. It was too close to how he'd wanted it to be. How he'd wanted to do it.

Back in the shop, grabbing lunch plans for the week and the mail - mail. Mail for Jon. Egh. - He'd sat with Gretchen over tea and made use of the slow, wobbly wifi. Found himself checking affordable flats in London. Flats for two.  
If he tried to turn on his phone now the page might still be pre-loaded, it being the last one he'd opened.

He'd sat there idly to the backdrop of the ageing lady's unconcerned chattiness -she didn't really care if he was paying attention- wondering if Jon liked high ceilings or low. He probably didn't like carpet floors, how they'd snag on well-worn socks. He probably liked windows with good shutters, so he could get his sleep. He probably liked buying furniture without a thought, whichever delivered quicker, and then consider lamps agonisingly, spending hours researching the right bulbs, the right size, brightness, warmth. Martin wouldn't mind that, he had a knack for comparison shopping.

Martin stared at the single sweater on the bed. It was probably the warmest one but if he wanted to wear layers the sleeves tended to bunch up under jackets. Jon liked this one, he'd appropriated it for himself a couple of times. Liked to put his face up against the sleeve when Martin wore it.

Martin stopped. He walked himself to the window, cast the curtain aside and focused his eyes. He took a long hard look.


	2. Morning

* * *

Waking up was disorienting. Then again he hadn't done it in a while. How long a time they'd been out there, in the landscape, crossing the domains, wandering hills and flats that hurt to conjure the memory of? Not even Jon had ever been able to tell. Time had probably suffered just as much as the geography had, Martin assumed. Making sense wasn't its main job any more. But now, here, laying in a frankly excessively large bed, it felt solid again. He blinked into the low light of the shiny polished sconces on the stuccoed wall. It was a bit like seeing through freshly cleaned glasses for the first time in days. Everything felt a little too _sensible_. Sharp right angles. A floor that was flat all the way, and didn't gradually wander away when you looked at it. A Jon that wasn't squinting into the distance intently, walking in long strides like he was late to something.  
Jon. Jon was still asleep, very asleep. Mouth slightly open, chin touching his shoulder, limbs all over the place like they only were whenever he got caught unawares by his own exhaustion. He was wearing his jacket still. Probably his shoes, too.  
Martin reached a hand out to push the hair out of Jon's face, realising how stiff the strand was with grime and sand. Seeing his own fingers, dirt under the nails and in all the little creases. He looked at it. Had his hand been this dirty the whole time? Had he just not noticed? Was dirt not right, either, on the outside? Was dirt like time now? Just, absent. Beside the point.

He risked a look around the room. There seemed to be windows, but the curtains were drawn tight. There were two doors in polished white - one had to be the entrance, because it had two whole wings, each with their own golden handle. One of them had a key stuck in it, clearly visible, with a fancy blue tassle dangling off of it. The other door was smaller and in the right hand wall. It, presumably, hid a bathroom. God he hoped it was a bathroom. He ached for a proper shower. He laid his head back down. There was no way though. No way he'd get out of this bed without Jon. No way he'd let him out of his sight.  
  
There was a sound by the door. Martin sat up straight. Just caught it clicking shut. He hadn't heard it open. In front of it, all of a sudden, stood a room service cart - an old-timey one, all brass and glass-surface tray and wheels on the bottom. It was laden with drinks- tea?  
Martin was on his feet before he'd decided to - his dirt-caked boots fell on plush carpet. He reached down, unlaced them, kicked them off. Snuck to the door quietly and, after a moment's consideration, turned the key in its lock.

There was a card, heavy stationary, cream-colored. It read " _Good Morning!_ " in curving, unnecessarily floral handwriting. Martin half-expected a spider to sit underneath it. He checked and there wasn't.  
  
A crystal carafe of water, two glasses with orange juice and a shiny, curved-spout kettle filled with hot water. Martin narrowed his eyes at the excessively clean looking teacups with Darjeeling bags tucked underneath the spoons. The last tea they'd had, it - well, he couldn't quite remember what it had _looked_ like but he did remember it had been as far from tea as anything could possibly be without bursting the mug.  
For some reason Martin poked a finger at the sugar bowl, as if it was a test. Didn't quite know what he was achieving. If Annabelle's masterplan was to poison them, that seemed by far not roundabout enough for her. And... Salesa? He didn't really know enough about the man. But if they'd wanted to kill them, surely there had been an opportunity while they were _dead asleep_ , possibly for a dozen hours or so. Martin stretched, heard his joints pop. More than twelve hours, probably. He lifted the tray and brought it over to the bed, set it carefully down out of Jon's reach, in case he was going to have one of his more _animated_ wake-ups, and unwrapped a teabag, brought it up to his nose and inhaled deep.

  
Maybe it was Martin shuffling around too much on the too-soft mattress, or the smell of tea -- actualy, honest-to-God tea -- brewing but halfway into his third scoop of sugar Martin heard a groan and a "...Whu?" to his left.  
"Morning", he said, reaching out to Jon with his free hand - his other had a tea spoon - and put it calmingly on his shoulder. Jon looked like he was going through the same headach-y culture shock of surroundings as Martin had.  
  
"F...hming Mikaele _Salesa_ \--" Jon was sat up straight as a board in an instant. "What happened?"  
"We fell asleep. On the floor. I think." Martin stirred his cup.  
Jon rubbed his face. Then his shoulder. Probably fell weird on it. "That makes sense."  
"Tea?"  
"Mh?"  
"D'you want tea?"  
"Very."  
"This one doesn't even try to bite you when you drink it", Martin said informatively, pouring water into Jon's cup.  
"I love that kind", said Jon, blinking.

Once they were done with tea -- and water, they each quickly discovered they were _thirsty_ \-- they both got brave enough to check the smaller door. Jon was most eager to open it, because he didn't _know what was behind it_ , and Martin stood behind him, craning his neck. "Woah."

It was a bathroom. Except it was huge. Two sinks, giant mirror, gleaming tiles everywhere. The middle of the room had a massive tub, the taps and showerhead shiny gold and excessively unwieldy.  
  
"If this is some sort of really messed-up trap I am going to go berserk", Martin said.  
"Somehow I doubt this is the bathtub of our nefarious demise", said Jon.  
"Wouldn't be the weirdest thing we've seen, frankly." Martin had walked over to one of the sinks and turned the knob. Water came out. It was warm.  
"Well. I've done my due diligence. Willing to chance it?", he said, shrugging. He turned to see Jon already peeling out of his hiking jacket giddily.

Martin sat on the corner of the tub to get off his socks, which he suspected might be able to stand up on their own by now. "We really should shower off first."  
"Yep", said Jon who, when taking off his shirt, discovered mud particles raining down on the floor.

Jon was faster than Martin, as per usual, and began playing around with the hot and cold balance, holding a hand under the spray of the showerhead. Martin meanwhile had had a thought and went back into the room to dig into his backpack. He came back holding two toothbrushes, toothpaste and a comb. Finally, he hadn't just lugged along these, and changes of clothes for both of them, for nothing all this time.  
He handed Jon his, who looked momentarily very distracted with the realisation. "Good call."

Martin turned to the mirror. "Don't wash your hair I want to wash it", he said around a mouthful of foamy toothpaste.   
"I'm just getting it wet!", Jon said, then hissed sharply through his teeth. He'd put down the water and had frozen mid-battle with his hairtie. He'd sat down and had his head bent, fighting the twisted bun he'd put in his hair what, months ago?  
Martin handed him the toothpaste and made to untangle the Gordian mess of his hair. God. This wasn't good.

"Hrm. Hold still", he said and walked back to the sink, where he'd seen scissors - right next to a full shaving set. Real passive-aggressive, Annabelle.   
Before grabbing it he spat out his toothpaste. As he did, Martin had a moment of intense whiplash, looking at his Apocalypse-battered face in the mirror. A dizzy sort of ache, remembering the past -uh- month and doing something so human, so completely normal. He closed his eyes a moment. When he opened them again he saw he had blood on the front of his shirt. Suddenly he was in a hurry to take it off, everything.

"Riiight", he said when he'd returned, shirt discarded, and held Jon's hair in a tight grip. Jon made a concerned noise when he noticed the scissors in Martin's hands.  
"Don't be a baby", Martin said before getting the tie off in as small a snip as he could possibly manage. He ended up having to cut twice more.  
"I still needed that you know", Jon said.  
"Shush you were going to have to throw this away either way. Maybe burn it." With pointed fingers Martin threw the remains of Jon's old hairtie aside.  
"That bad?" Jon was screwing open the toothpaste awkwardly, since he was sitting in a mostly empty empty bath with his head held low and sideways.  
"Yup. Like something... prehistoric. Anyway I bought you a million of them at the shop remember?"  
"I see. So you did pack all the essentials."  
"All of them."  
Martin let down Jon's hair gently. As gently as he could. Decidedly. Firmly, then. Oof. Uh-oh.

"Your hair got long..."  
Jon turned slightly to show Martin his cocked eyebrow, unable to make a snide comment for the toothbrush in his mouth. But he did point at his scraggly beard. Right.  
Martin kneeled beside the tub and tried his best to rake Jon's hair into all the same direction at least. Oh. Oh. All his good work at the cabin, the expensive shampoo... He sighed.  
"Will I have to cut it?" Jon didn't sound nearly as concerned as Martin felt.  
"Not if I can help it", he said.  
Jon hummed. "Get into the tub you'll get cold."  
"A minute."

It took a few _just-a-minute_ s of gentle teasing and combing under running water to make Jon's hair the texture of hair again. At least it was long enough for the bulk to fit into Martin's fist so he didn't get too many protests from Mr I-just-have-very-sensitive-scalp-okay. But no, they wouldn't have to cut it. Not if Martin had a say in it.

  
Martin stepped into the tub gingerly, because it was all wet now, and Jon handed him the shower head. The water was warm. Really warm.   
"God. That's nice." Jon hummed in agreement, scratching his head absently. Martin realised the running-off water was pink.  
  
"Jon your leg."  
Surprised, Jon pulled up his knee and inspected his hurt leg. He stiffly peeled off the rough bandage Martin had put on it and dropped it outside the tub. Mumbled something about having forgotten about it.  
"Why isn't it healing faster?", Martin asked.  
"Daisy. She was really... Powerful, lacking a better word", Jon said, looking at the horrendous toothed gash in his shin like it was a rare arhtropod he couldn't quite categorise.  
"I thought _you_ were powerful."  
"Well. It'st... Power is measured differently now." Jon had an incomprehensive mix of ruminations and emotions on his face.  
"Does it hurt?"  
"Sometimes."

By the side of the tub was a set of those tiny bottles of shampoo and body wash you got in hotels. Those were really odd to look at and hold, too, like the toothbrush. Martin used only half of his shampoo, knowing Jon would need more than one.   
As he started applying it Jon looked at him upset. "Well if you want to wash _mine_ -", he said, reaching over, stopping him. "It's easier to do", said Martin in protest, laughing as Jon fought his hands a moment. He had to bend down for Jon to reach, but gladly let him run his fingers through the lather. 

Standing like this, their faces were so close. If he tried to kiss Jon now, they'd get shampoo mouth for sure. When he leaned in to kiss Jon he made a low sound like _You'll give me shampoo mouth_ but did nothing to prevent it. The intent washing-motions of Jon's hands momentarily lost their concentration. The kiss ended rather unceremoniously, with both of them sputtering, laughing, spitting out the taste of hotel shampoo. Martin had to leave his eyes pressed shut against the burning.  
"Alright, alright. I think I'm clean", Martin said, stilling Jon's hands. "Give me the water."

For Jon's hair, they both sat down in the tub with Jon leaning his back against Martin's knees.  
"Do you think", Jon said thoughtfully while Martin parted his wet hair with careful, wide-set fingers. "Ow- Do you think there might be other places like this? Because- Because I can't, you know. See them. I can't tell if there are any more."

Martin frowned. It had been a while Jon had asked him what he thought about... something factual. Felt a bit weird to think about.  
"Might be?" He thought about it. "But we don't really know what this _is._ Or why this house is like this. Might be a one-time thing, you know."  
"Georgie and Melanie..."  
"Myeah. I feel like probably not. We're not _that_ lucky."  
"Yes..."  
"Though I do feel pretty lucky right now."  
"Hmm."  
Jon leaned his weight back even more and sighed a sigh that told Martin he'd closed his eyes.

When the last of the shampoo water had run off they rinsed and filled up the tub. At no point did they talk about whether or not they should be taking this long. Frankly, if Salesa or Annabelle had any time pressing matters to talk about they could bugger right off, in Martin's esteemed opinion.   
Steam rose from the water, fogging up the mirrors and the tiles. Jon had his hurt leg up on edge of the tub, dangling, and his head on Martin's chest. Martin ran two slow fingers along Jon's forearm and up to his shoulders, across the top part of his spine, then back, musing. Now the Apocalypse was almost worth it, sort of. The shower in the Cabin had been a drab old thing, the only reason they'd been able to shower together at all was that it was just tiles and a drain, no curtain.  
Jon straightened his arm under Martin's touch.

"Jon?"  
"Mh-m."  
"You can't tell what's going to happen next."  
"That's correct."  
"Should we... be worried then?"  
"Maybe."  
"You don't seem to be."  
"I never stop worrying, Martin. It's just... there seems to be less point it now, rather. With things the way they are. The world."  
"Should I be worried about _that_? You haven't really... It's _danger_ , Jon. You still get that, right?"  
Jon twisted a little to look at him. "I'm still aware of the _concept_."  
"But you don't get scared, do you."  
"Yes I do! All the time! It's a-" He stopped himself going into a rant about the very Nature of this Fear-Governed World, beset with terrors and the suffering of all mankind and so on and so forth, et cetera.   
  
"...All the time", Jon said again, somewhat pettily.  
"Yeah? When's the last time you were scared, then?"  
"I-" He knitted up his brow. Turned back away, annoyed. Then, quietly. "Well. Daisy. And in the Theatre. When you said you had gone", he gestured. " _Exploring_."  
"That was a _while_ ago, Jon."  
"Well, you were always there after that, so."  
Martin chewed on his lip. "I'm just... checking. Feels like you've been... getting used to things. How they are."  
"Is that bad? Necessarily."  
"...Probably."  
"It's hard not to get used to-- It's just what happens isn't it? It has been a while since we started. Don't tell me you haven't caught yourself be, ah, tired or bored or, or _trivialising_ \--"  
"Yeah but it's different for you, isn't it? You're all... a part of it. Seeing everything. Making your little travel guide."

Jon rose up a little as if preparing to argue something, but there was just a noise of him stopping himself, then he settled back down, albeit stiffly. There was a moment of silence.

"I'm not losing perspective", Jon said eventually, calmly. "If that's what you're thinking."  
"Maybe? I mean. You have _all_ of the perspective. More than anyone's ever had but-- You can't see _everything_. You haven't a few times now."

"I-", Jon started, then thought about it more. "I don't think that's a bad thing."  
Martin looked at Jon's face from the side. Jon glanced back at him a moment. Martin could tell he was gathering some thoughts.  
"What I mean is. When we started out I- I thought I _knew_ that, that this was it. The end of the world, I did that. It's all done. Finished. And that's final."  
"Wait-"  
"But now", he went on, "there's all these people, places - things - I can't see. This whole building, even. When I - I got distracted, I couldn't even see _Daisy_. I think - _I_ know everything that the Eye knows. So I believed I knew everything because that's what the Eye believes.  
So now I'm thinking maybe... Maybe there's things the Eye doesn't know. That it _believes_ are true, that maybe aren't. That maybe it could be... wrong about something. That I was wrong."

Hmm. Martin raised his elbow out of the water, _plit-sh_.   
"So wait, when we started- When we left the cabin, you thought...?"  
Jon dropped the hand he'd been gesturing with, somewhat guiltily.

"Well. I don't know. When you think the world has ended, you might as well do whatever, uh, sounds fun."  
Martin huffed a laugh. "Fun?"  
"Well maybe not _fun_ but when you said you wanted to go and kill Elias. That sounded like something you wanted to do. Something that I might want to help you do."  
Martin laughed then, so loudly Jon's head bounced a little on his chest. "Yea, sounds like a hoot."   
Jon laughed with him, a cracked, tentatives sound.  
Still snickering, Martin added, "Also the house we were in _was_ trying to eat us."

"That too." Jon turned to his side, pulling his leg down and under the water. No more blood rose to the surface.  
"The point is", he said, adjusting where he kept his head. "Maybe... Maybe there _is_ hope. A bit of it, at least." He looked up at Martin. Martin just raised his eyebrows.  
"That's what _I_ said."  
Jon gave him a smile. "Well you were right, then. ...Maybe."  
Martin stretched a little, slung both arms around Jon. "I'm maybe right all the time, Jon."  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pst pst pst i am gOING to finish part II i promise it's just that my brain works in mysterious ways what can ya do
> 
> as always, i am powered and forever delighted by comments, thoughts and critique!


	3. Lunch

* * *

_"No, I think the best thing I can do is to welcome you to stay in my sanctuary as long as you wish."_  
"Oh, well, thank you. I think we just might. Jon?"

Martin looked to Jon.  
Great, now Jon was going to have to explain that no, they could not stay. There was no way. They had somewhere to go, to be, outside, in the world. Domains to trespass and bear witness and put into words, phrases, monologues. Observing the fears and effects on its inhabitants the endless tortures of the fates put upon them by no one's choosing but their own --

"I can't use my powers here. I- I can't protect us", Jon said.  
He could barely _see_. All he had were these two idiotic human eyes, faulty and incorrect and mapped to all the wrongest, most biased colors. Tied so closely to the ground, just the one fixed perspective. No longer could he watch from the mosaic skies, all angles at once. Fractured but whole.   
He would've felt blind were it not for the sheer memory of what it used to be just a man, to see. The bare knowledge of how to train is eyes and sharpen his focus, using old muscles. He could tell it made for awkwardness. Turning his head was no longer purely gestural. More than once he'd frowned at the wall before realising he had to turn to see what he wanted. If he wanted to see things more closely he had to _move up to them_ \--

"Protect us from what?"

Martin's cheeks were really pink. Not flushed, just. Warm and free of dirt and shadow. He had red hair that shone in the golden daylight. It almost seemed naked to Jon, after all this time that he'd kept it under his woolen hat against the wind. It had begun to dry curly and unruly, invading on his forehead and temples from the sides. And he looked at Jon.

"I- It's going to be difficult to relax with a spider lurking around."  
He liked to have a lookout for spiders, dispersed throughout the domains like veins, meddling, learning, interfering. Headache-inducing, inscrutable.

He ignored Salesa chiming in with his charitable, conversational tone. _It gets easier with practice._

If he said no Martin would just nod and shoulder his backpack like he'd done the entire time. And he wouldn't complain. Well, not about _Jon_. But he wouldn't be like this. He wouldn't be sat on this silly plush chair, both hands on his ankle, shoulders drawn up and forward from when he'd been listening politely to Salesa's story, occasionally sharing wordy glances with Jon.

"Alright, I- I guess we can stay. Just for a bit."

* * *

  
  


The door fell shut behind them.

Jon looked at Martin. Martin looked at Jon.

"So, uh." Martin looked around. "What do we do now?"  
Martin would have to get used to the thought of this. That they were here, and it was... fine? That they would _stay_.

"I have to eat something", Jon said, looking a bit rumpled.  
"That sounds grand."  
Martin took Jon by the arm and steered him towards the kitchen wing they'd been shown earlier.  
"I think I'm gonna go look for whatever I can find with chocolate on it and then I'd like to eat the entire thing."  
  
  
_  
  
  


The kitchen was a bit starkly modern next to all the aged poshness of the house, more of an industrial restaurant kitchen built in to serve people in whatever fancy room in the house the tourists might take teas and overpriced continental breakfasts. They weren't very interested in finding that, but Martin did find some very fancy table napkins and silver ware so of course he dusted off two huge fancy plates and tried to arrange them on the counter that had a few high stools.  
Jon seemed to have found something up to his standards and put a pot of water on the hub to boil. Then he joined Martin, showing off two gleaming forks and knives he'd unearthed.

Giggling, Martin tested the teeth of a silver fork. It hadn't been properly polished in a bit.

"Oh. Jon, the knife goes on the left."  
"Oh? Since when?"  
"This is a proper table, gotta set it properly."  
"Right."

"I used to wait tables, actually, d'you know that?"  
Jon closed his mouth. He'd started actively trying to use the words 'I know' less, on account of it _driving Martin up the wall_.

Martin's face dropped. "Wait. That wasn't on my CV", he said flatly. "How did you know?"  
"I'm sorry."  
" _JON_."  
"I didn't! I'm sorry! I - Once I _realised_ that it was happening I- I had to get the hang of it first didn't I. And I said I'd _try_ to- So I- When I looked at _you_ \-- I can deal with it _now,_ I swear it. But at first, I had to sort of. Steer the information. Only surface things. Like -- work or. Concerts. Nothing private. I swear."  
"What else?"  
"...Work. And some... some school." Jon winced, "A birthday or two."  
"Uuuugh!"  
"I swear it's all _very_ trivial-"  
"God. How can you judge that?"  
"I- actually. Look. The Eye doesn't really. Have a distinction for what's personal and what's not the only -- _actual_ , tangible, meaningful distinction is... The number of eyes that saw. You know, eyes, real or images-- I reasoned - I tried to only see the things lots of other people saw you do. So."  
Martin huffed.  
"None of it jumped out at me as particularly meaningful else I would have mentioned. It's all... quite boring really."

"Thanks."

Jon squirmed. "I'm sure your life wasn't boring. I tried my hardest to only see the boring parts, is what I mean."  
"That's not fair. You- _I_ didn't get to see your awkward high school years did I."  
"Um. Trust me that's..."  
"See, that's what I mean though. I didn't get to say ' _Oh, you didn't miss anything trust me_ '."

Jon rubbed a hand over his left eye and brow. "Right. Uh. ...I'm going to get my phone."

  
While Martin watched the pasta water all upset Jon went looking for a power outlet for his dead phone. Eventually he was crouched by a stainless steel shelf, his mobility somewhat limited by the cable length. He gestured Martin over and they both sat on the tiled floor, watching the startup screen.

"One minute... It saves things that Georgie sends me in the-"

It took a moment of Jon impatiently tapping his still napping phone. But he did eventually slam down mid-scroll somewhere in his saved photos and produced -- It looked to be a picture taken on an older phone, all smudged lense and low resolution, but Jon was still undeniably Jon in it. Even though he had no scars or gray hair and a Radiohead T-shirt on. Also a goatee and those half-frame glasses every taste-deficient IT-nerd wore in the 2008s.  
His face was slightly blurry, clearly caught unawares; snapped to attention grimly, disapprovingly. Behind him a blur of campus green and people in bright clothes, it wasn't clear what was sitting on- might be even leaning nonchalantly -- well, not successfully. More like chalantly -- against a low wall somewhere. At the very edge of the frame Jon's left hand was dropped by his thigh and was holding what perhaps was a Gameboy that might have already been out of date at the _time_ -

"Awwww. You look like an absolute dickhead."  
Jon made a surprised-offended noise. "Hey now..."

By now Martin had taken the phone out of Jon's hand, and quickly pressed it against his chest so he couldn't take it back.  
"Please tell me you have more."

  
Unsurprisingly, Jon wasn't big on pictures. Having them taken of himself or taking them. Except of course, towards the more recent timeline when there were endless rolls of identical pictures of the Admiral sleeping. The _real_ gems were in the Received Files. Firstly, apparently Melanie had kept up the habit of taking incriminating pictures of colleagues and sending them to the work groupchat -- Rosie caught stealing cake from the break room fridge, Daisy holding a beer in the stacks while Basira did actual work in the distance, _several_ of Jon asleep at his desk, one of him leaning precariously out the storage closet window, one hand outside the building, cigarette smoke trailing traitorously from his mouth.  
It turned out that Daisy apparently was in the habit of making pub personnel pose with her in the middle of the night, often with Basira and Jon taking almost identical poses of quiet suffering. There was one of Jon holding a glass of darts at a dangerous angle, heatedly arguing with a stranger in dim lighting while Daisy's upper face looked straight into the camera as if to say ' _This is evidence for tomorrow, Jon_.'

"Hm, wait. I think Sasha once found old school photos of everyone --", Jon said, scrunching up his face to remember if those might still be somewhere deep on the memory card-  
"Oh, shit, Jon. Your food!"

  
__

After lunch they took a roundabout route back to their room, peeking into a few rooms on the way. Carefully, though. Opening doors was still somewhat of a dubious undertaking. Everything was very gilded, carpeted, dark woods and floral wall adornments.

The whole time Jon moved oddly, a bit unsteadily, not his usual stride. When they got to the stairs he actually paused to place a careful hand on the handrail.

"Are you okay?", Martin asked.  
Jon mumbled something.  
"Hm?"  
"I can't... see very well", Jon said, frowning.  
"Oh. Oh, do you want -" Martin rummaged in his many jacket pockets and produced Jon's old glasses, one side cracked from when they'd hit the ground.  
Jon looked confused when he took them.  
"I thought I threw them..."  
"I picked them up for sort of for sentimental reasons but I guess your eyes are human again, aren't they?"  
"I suppose."  
Jon put them on carefully, but the cracked glass wasn't going to fall out -- it would have by now, forgotten in Martin's breast pocket as they had been. Blinking a few times, Jon looked around.

"Better?"  
"Much."

  
__

"Would you just start already?"  
"I make no promises."  
"That's fine, all I ask is to not leave here with a mullet."  
Jon's hand still hovered behind Martin's head with the scissors, still unused. In the mirror Martin could only see Jon's raised shoulder and one side of head.  
Martin plucked at the too-long tuft of hair by his ear. "This whole time I've been feeling like a Hobbit lost in Mordor."  
"What if I cut it too short. You like it longer. You like it when-"  
" _Jon_."  
Jon drew a long breath. He re-straightened the hair with the comb, _again_.   
"I just want to go back to looking like a normal human."  
"What does that even mean any more", Jon mumbled. There was the tiniest _snip_. Was he cutting them one by one?  
"Fine, I want to look like _me_ , then."  
"You always look like you -- Okay, okay, I can hardly mess that up can I."  
Martin snorted. "Did I take the pressure off too much now? I do want you to at least _try_."  
  
"I was head Archivist not head hairdresser...", Jon muttered darkly.  
Snip.

"That would have made this Apocalypse much more interesting, wouldn't it? Everything all ...hair. Instead of eyes."  
Jon paused. "Are you sure about that?"  
Images of dirty drain hair and matted fur lined Martin's thoughts.  
Snip.

"Do you think the sky would just be a wig? Instead of...", Martin mused.  
Jon's shoulders sagged. "If you want me to do this you can't make me laugh."  
"Maybe the Panopticon wouldn't be a tower, just a big old beehive updo."  
" _Martin._ "  
"And you wouldn't stare Avatars to death you'd _hair_ -"  
Jon's hands dropped.  
"That's it", he groaned. "Enjoy your hair long and with a corner in the back."  
"I'm just _thinking_!"  
Jon made as if to walk away.  
"I'm sorryy. I'll shut up. I promise. I won't be funny. Jon, please."  
He saw Jon press the back of hand to his mouth, a flash of a grin as he straightened.  
"Just. Would you hold still", Jon said sternly. "And I don't want to hear you complain later when I shave."

"Hrm."  
Jon pushed his glasses back up his nose, having waited much too long to do it now that he wasn't used to them any more.

"How is it?", Martin asked. "Going back to, uh, human eyesight? After all that."  
"It's like losing... not quite a limb", Jon said, realigning the comb and scissors as if he was preparing for surgery.  
"It's like... the difference between a peep-hole on a door and going _outside_ , in the daylight."  
"Sounds annoying."  
"It's... I mean. You have been using yours this whole time." Snip. "I shouldn't complain."  
"Well I have good eyes though. You're like. Blind without your glasses."  
"Hm. Also I don't see color on the left side."  
"You _what_? Since when?"  
"Hold still!" Jon's smirk went a bit sideways. "Uh, ...the Black Sun incident?"  
He had that face that he got lately, when he realised _once again_ that Martin didn't just _know_ things.

"Really? Why didn't you get it checked?"  
"I didn't think it was a medical problem, exactly. Hard to explain to an optometrist, besides."  
"I'd have expected the Eye, to, you know. Step in. Help out."  
"I did too, until. Well. If the Watcher could heal eyesight, Melanie's, er, _resignation_ wouldn't have worked out as it did would it?  
Also... It's not really about the naked eye, is it. It's about observation and... guess as long as I could still read statements--"  
"There's still something really ironic about the Beholding choosing someone so hopelelssly short-sighted..."  
" _You_ chose me to give you a haircut, is that so much better?"

  
__

It took them far too long to realise that there was _sunlight._ A sky, a blue one. Cloud-clad and blind, unseeing. The weather was on the windy side, and the clouds more often than not cast shadows across the terrace on the west side of the house but it didn't matter. They just zipped up their jackets and sat close together.

They sat there, in the sun, for... how did time go again? Hours?   
Like moon drunk witches but in broad, naked daylight, basking like kittens, still like flowers. The gardens were large and if you angled your view just right, the odd blurred lines of the fences and hedges, the strange smear of primordial greys at the edge of your vision barely cheapened the sights and sounds of this odd hole in un-reality.

"It's strange", Jon said, after a long, long time. "Odd to realise all the things you've started to miss. The shape of absence."  
This wasn't by far the most pretentious thing Jon had said lately but somehow it tickled Martin something fierce.  
"I really have to get you that poetry class", he said with a laugh.  
Jon didn't react except he pointed at one of the trees, unremarkably swaying in the wind.  
"What?", Martin said.  
"There's a bird."  
Martin straightened.  
"I don't see-"  
Something fluttered between the shadow-cast leaves that might be just a motion of the wind.  
Jon leaned in close so that Martin's angle of vision aligned with the point of his arm.

  
__

Rounding the excessively windowed side of the house that faced the gardens they found a terrace door that lead into some sort of lounge, the large windows overlooking the gardens. It was empty now, safe for a few used and emptied glasses on a coffee table to the side.  
Sunlight filtered plenty through the panelled windows, and after staying outside far too long it seemed excessively warm.

They both were feeling a bit solemn, after wondering at length about what appeared to be a solitary bird in the whole area, what its life must be like, if it was ever in danger of flying out of bounds and falling prey to whatever took the animals and wildlife in the fearscape.

"This is nice. I feel like we should have really tall cocktails and gossip about the lords and ladies", Martin said with a hand on his hip, trying to loosen the mood.  
Jon just hummed, looking especially out of place all of a sudden, with his cracked glasses and his cheap jacket still zipped up all the way to his chin.

"Something on your mind?", Martin asked, rubbing at his wind-bitten cheek.  
"Hm? No", Jon said, his eyes following Martin's hand for some reason. "Not a thing."  
Martin dropped his hand, self-conscious out of nowhere.   
"Right..."

Martin turned to the rest of the room.  
"Wait, this is-"

Apparently they'd found the room they'd first been led into by Annabelle, where they'd passed out from exhaustion. He'd only realised now that his eyes fell on the grand piano facing the door.

"This is where we came in", Jon said, also surprised. And then, to Martin's amazement, he walked over to the piano and sat down on the plush piano stool.

"Wait, you can play?"  
"I could, once. Don't know if it's any good still-", he said with that piqued self-deprecating tone he had, then cracked a knuckle before raising his hands dramatically.

It was slow and simple, bit bland, but the chords played together nicely, filling up the whole room. Jon had his eyes fixed on his hands critically for a few moments. One time he fumbled, paused, and started over, carefully placing his fingers on the keys one by one. Then, once he got back into the rhythm he looked over to Martin with half a smile.  
Because it wasn't a very lively piece, and Jon had his elbows pretty even and the stool was a wide one, all shiny red satin clad, Martin sat beside him, careful not to interrupt.  
  
"It's nice", he said.  
"Mh", Jon said unimpressed, a brow raised. "My teacher never let me learn anything interesting, I always complained about it."  
He pushed his chin forward, straining his memory for the next change in rhythm.  
"Yes, I bet you were a _lovely_ student."  
He smiled, wistfully, and botched what was probably the more complicated, teach-worthy part of the song. His hands stilled and hovered over the keys.

"I... don't remember the rest", he said.

"You mean you can't ask a terrible God about the notes any more."  
Jon gave him a look. "...I don't want you spending time with Salesa any more. He's making you all snide."  
Martin laughed. The acoustics in here were amazing.

"When's the last time you played?"  
"Uh. Twelve, fifteen years?", he said. Martin swatted his arm. "That's still way too good, Jon."  
"Is it?"  
"I can't even remember how _Frére Jacques_ goes five minutes after being shown."  
He could _see_ Jon physically restraining himself from reaching out and playing it _right now_. Martin was so proud of him for not doing it.

"What _would_ you have liked to play, then? If you thought this one was boring."  
"Ah, see", Jon said, a weird look in his eyes. He reached out and ambled a few notes that sounded awfully familiar. Martin frowned. As the song went on he frowned harder.  
  
"Jon no."  
Jon looked at him with the beginnings of a grin.  
Martin returned his look, aghast. "You're not doing this right now."  
  
Jon began humming Billy Joel's _Piano Man_. Martin laughed disbelievingly.  
  
"What, I taught myself", Jon said then played the switch to the refrain with a flourish.  
"This is not acceptable", Martin breathed. He laughed some more.  
"Like I said. Me as a teen? You're not missing anything."  
"If you start singing too, Fear God or no, Salesa will probably evict us right that second."  
"I probably wouldn't know the words", Jon said, delighted.  
Chuckling, Martin put his arm around him, and Jon had to adjust his tempo momentarily while he fixed his posture.

When the song was finished Jon put his hands on the wood below the keys, a little self-consciously.  
Martin had his head on Jon's shoulder. He'd had to do _something_ so he didn't end up gazing mushily at the man playing depressing pub anthems on a grand piano.

"It's a little surreal, isn't it?", Martin said.  
"Well it's all been _surreal_ -"  
"Different, though."  
"Yes. Different."   
Jon had used that dumb, maddening 'Yes'. The one that said _Yes, Martin_ as if they'd had every conversation a thousand times already, and he was starting to have a little less fun about it right around now.

"I don't really know what we should be doing with our time."  
"I could play it again if you like-"  
"God. No. Very impressive, please no more. Don't you know any others?"  
"Hum. I do want you to be able to look at me the same after this so- Maybe not."  
"That bad?"  
"Quite."  
"Maybe you can play another one tomorrow? Spread out the horror, maybe I won't leave you."  
"Hmmm."

Martin heard the fall board close heavily. Jon must have done it without looking, because he and Martin had inched their heads closer together with each exchange of words.  
Jon put a hand on Martin's cheek, fingertips cool from ivory keys. The thumb drew a faint line down, ending at the corner of his mouth. Jon looked at Martin's face like... Like he hadn't seen it in a long time.   
He kissed him softly, and this too felt like they hadn't done it in a long time. Not a lot of privacy in the Apocalypse, not by design. A bit of a mood killer, all things considered.

God, he'd almost forgotten how much warmer the inside of the lips were, that little threshold, little change of the skin between a peck and the mouth. How Jon tilted his head to get his nose out of the way, always closing his eyes when he did. How he didn't mind when Martin put his hand in his hair, even though normally he was so protective of it.

The frame of Jon's glasses bumped up against Martin's brow and Jon made a perturbed sound. He fumbled to move them out of the way. The tips of the temples tugged at some of his hair when he took them off and he glared at them sinisterly.  
He went on to all but slap them onto the roof of the piano.  
Giggling, Martin let his head roll onto Jon's shoulder and sighed happily.

"I love you so much", he smiled.

Jon's hand stilled. And then he didn't move for a bit.

Instantly Martin raised his head up. "What? Still?"

Jon returned Martin's look as if wounded. He started to lean away but they were still embraced, so Martin didn't let him.

"You get to tell me all the time", Martin said, hurt.

"Well _you_ didn't--"  
When Jon met Martin's eyes he seemed to regret it. "I'm having a- It's hard-" He fidgeted a hand under the collar of his shirt and scratched at his shoulder. "You're right. And it's not anything to do with you, but I-"

"I think you'll find", Martin said at a carefully measured volume. "That it _does_ have to do with me."

The noise Jon made would have been funnier in any other context. "Martin I-", he almost laughed as he raised his arms helplessly.   
"I can't _accept it_ ", he said. Like there was something self-evident in his words. Like they made sense. Should, to everyone.

"Accept wha-"

" _You didn't end the world!"_

"Yea", Martin said, rather obviously. "Elias did."

Jon gave him a glare forged of pure frustration.  
  
"What, Jon. You _didn't."_

Petulantly, Jon pulled up his shoulders. "Yes, logically. Sure. Elias did. Magnus."

There was a pause when Martin waited for Jon to say more stupid things. When he didn't, he carefully put both hands on Jon's shoulders.

"So, logically then, you didn't end the world. You weren't even _complicit_. All you did was your damndest to stop this from happening, remember?"

Jon was avoiding eye contact.

"You killed yourself over it even."

"Damn good it did", Jon muttered.

" _Jon_."

Briefly Jon pressed his fingers to his closed eyes. "Martin, I can't forget what happened. And I don't mean - I mean _can,_ physically, because I nearly did just now but I - I _won't_."  
He caught Martin's look of disapproval and raised clawed hands at the air around his face. "I feel like if I do - If I let down my guard just one second too long I- I don't know what will happen."

"You're allowed to have rest, Jon. One. What more can possibly happen?"

_"That's what I thought the last time!"_

"Jon", Martin said, pained for so many reasons. "The world didn't end because you were _happy_."

Jon breathed out something frustrated and resigned.

Martin had slipped his arms away from round Jon. "I thought that's why we're here. To take a breather and _not_ think about... For a little bit."  
"We _are_. We are. Could- Let's just leave it."

"No, Jon. I love you."

Jon had his eyes closed, thin lipped; nodded. Martin gave his shoulders a shake.

"You hear me? I love you! I'm in love with you. And I should get to say it.

I've earned the right to say it. I've done enough pretending around and not saying it. I'm _done,_ Jon.  
And if you're gonna hate yourself over- over the Apocalypse, well. I understand that. Just know I'll just love you twice as much then, for the both of us."

Jon never cried. Not that Martin had ever seen, anyway. But the way he pressed his eyes closed, turning his head. Something about the lines of his mouth. It hurt Martin to see.

"And I'm not gonna drop it. Because I won't _stop_. I'm in love! You can't stop me, no one can. I couldn't stop if I tried. God knows I've _tried_."  
He angled his head and saw Jon's mouth twitch.

Martin adjusted his hand behind Jon's head. "Hell, we both tried."  
Jon exhaled quietly, reluctantly. _Tchhhhh_.

Martin put on his petulant voice. " _You_ said I need to feel all the things. We said we need to tell each other things even if we don't want to hear it, remember?"  
He poked a finger at Jon's chest. "Remember?"

"I remember", Jon said with an eyeroll.

"Good."  
Martin wiped his cheek with a huff.


End file.
